


Thank God There's A Doctor In The House

by Kizzia



Series: A Soldier and a Doctor but not an Army Doctor [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF!John, Complete, F/M, Fluff, Greg Mycroft and Sherlock most definitely do not, Hurt/Comfort, John uses ALL his skills, Johnlock established relationship, M/M, Mrs Hudson and Molly keep calm, Post Reichenbach, Pregnancy, Reunion Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzia/pseuds/Kizzia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three long years John <i>finally</i> gets some answers. And a lot more besides. </p><p>This is a fill for a prompt that appeared on the <a href="http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/">Sherlockbbc LJ community</a> way back in October last year. Said prompt can be read <a href="http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/5040194.html?thread=38190402#t38190402">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A not-so-chance meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrosleCub12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/gifts).



> Huge thanks go to [Azriona](http://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona), for her brilliant beta'ing skills and for letting me moan about this to her when I couldn't work out why the heck it wasn't working. I owe you, my dear - in the non-threatening sense!
> 
> Also, all my love to [lovesfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/me23), who made [this rather lovely cover](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1515707/chapters/3203606?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_8801033) for it!

‘Why are you here, Mycroft?’ John appeared calm but there was an edge to his voice that reminded Mycroft in the strongest possible terms that this man had killed for Queen, country, _and_ his younger brother. ‘I distinctly remember telling you not to contact me at all.’

‘And I agreed that I would refrain from doing so unless it was a matter of life or death. I have not broken that agreement. Your life is now in real and present danger and I am here to ensure that you are not harmed.’

John looked at Mycroft, still standing on the doorstep, immaculately dressed and tapping his umbrella impatiently by his right foot. He looked tired. More so than the last time John had seen him; although John would have been the first to admit that his memories from the funeral and the days surrounding it weren’t the clearest. He didn’t want to let Mycroft in, didn’t want the flood of memories his presence was sure to generate, regardless of why he was here. Especially not right now, barely two days after John had completed his annual pilgrimage to the grave. Whoever said that time heals all wounds clearly didn’t know what they were talking about, since the pain didn’t seem to have dulled an iota in the past three years.

‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself,’ was what John finally said, when he was certain his voice wouldn’t betray him.

‘As I am fully aware but this is not just about you. Mrs Hudson is also in danger.’

At that the fight went out of John and he stepped back, let Mycroft enter the building and shut the door behind him.

‘So what exactly is going on?’

‘I would rather explain to everyone all at once, John, so if you could just ask Mrs Hudson to accompany us we should be on our way at once. Unfortunately Detective Inspector Lestrade and Ms Hooper are also caught up in this situation. They are being collected as we speak.’

‘Our way where, Mycroft?’

‘Somewhere safe, John. I cannot explain everything here, not without compromising the operation. I …’ Mycroft paused before continuing and his sudden moment of hesitation did more to convince John to do as he asked then the words which followed. ‘I know you have no reason to trust me but I would not have come if I could have avoided it.’

John gave a curt nod and then turned back up the stairs to 221B. ‘I’ll fetch her in a moment. I’m not leaving here without my gun.’

‘I wouldn’t expect anything less,’ Mycroft murmured as he pulled out his phone to call his assistant. Today was not the day to leave anything to chance.

 

oOo

 

‘I hope there’s a really good explanation for this,’ Greg said once Anthea had concluded her phone call. ‘I didn’t even realise Mycroft knew where we lived.’

‘You’d do best to assume Mr Holmes knows everything,’ she replied as the car moved through the London traffic, ‘and accept that he doesn’t act without reason.’

‘Can you tell us why?’ Molly asked as she shifted again in the leather seat, the sumptuous upholstery not doing anything to ease the ache in her lower back. ‘Is it …?’

‘Please, Miss Hooper, Mr Holmes will explain everything as soon as he is able to.’

‘It’s Ms Hooper now, thank you,’ Molly responded, pointedly resting her left hand on her bump. ‘I may not have changed my name but I am married. And I’d appreciate not being “handled”. I do know what’s at stake.’

‘Of course.’ Anthea actually sounded sincere. ‘My apologies, Ms Hooper.’

‘Molly?’ Greg looked at her with a mixture of confusion and pride. ‘What’s going on?’

Molly locked gazes with Anthea, inclining her head slightly. Anthea stared at Molly, searching her face, before giving a brief nod and asking the driver to pull over.  Within seconds she was elegantly ensconced in the front, the partition was closed, and the car was moving again, giving Greg and Molly complete privacy.

‘Molly?’ he said again, resting his hand over her own, smiling as he felt their child kick in response.

Molly closed her eyes briefly, teeth worrying at her lower lip before she laced her fingers into Greg’s, using her other hand to cup his cheek.

‘You remember our first date.’

‘Vividly.’ Greg twisted his head a little so he could kiss her palm. ‘Two very mediocre cups of coffee in the Bart’s coffee shop, neither of which actually got drunk because we couldn’t stop talking.’

‘And you remember the conversation.’

‘Of course I do, I … _Oh!_ ’

‘Yes. I … I’ve wanted to tell you about this so many times, because I can’t see how you’re going to forgive me when you find out what I’ve been keeping from you … but I made a promise and …’

‘Hush.’ Greg gently pressed one finger over her lips. ‘I said it then and I’ll say it again now. I don’t want you to break any promises and, providing you haven’t committed murder or helped shield a criminal, then I don’t care what it is you can’t tell me.’

‘I think you’ll care about this.’

‘As long as it isn’t that Mycroft’s your uncle and is about to start interfering in our lives on a daily basis, I think I’ll cope.’

He slid one arm round Molly’s shoulders, wrapped the other round the bump and cuddled her close as she gave a reluctant giggle. ‘I love you, Molly Hooper, for better, for worse. I’m not going to run out on you for something you did before we got together.’

‘Thank you,’ Molly said softly, relaxing against him as the car began to slow down. ‘I love you too.’

 

oOo

_I’m going to kill him_ , John thought as he stalked to and fro in front of the unlit fire, _or at least give him a black eye and a bloody nose_.  Mycroft had disappeared approximately five seconds after he’d ushered John and Mrs Hudson into what he’d called the living room but actually looked like something out of a big budget costume drama. In fact the whole place, which John thought was somewhere south-west of London from what he could remember of the route, looked like one of the last bastions of Victorian society; imposing, elegant and, John strongly suspected, incredibly secure. He also thought it might be the Holmes' family home and that _really_ wasn’t helping his temper. He kept imagining a younger but no less stark Sherlock perched on one of the chairs or rifling through the well-stocked shelves and the only thing holding the pain of loss at bay was the anger simmering in his chest.

He’d been able to distract himself initially - greeting Greg and Molly and listening with half an ear as Mrs Hudson managed to get every single detail of Molly’s pregnancy out of her within fifteen minutes - but that had been an hour ago and now he just wanted to get the hell out of there, danger or no. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there had been some windows, but the room was right at the centre of the house - solid walls covered in bookshelves on all sides - and he was beginning to feel like they were closing in on him.

A light touch to his arm stopped him in his tracks. ‘You’ll wear a hole in the carpet if you keep this up and I suspect it’s worth more than both our flats combined,’ Molly said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. ‘Won’t you come and sit down for a bit?’

John forced back the sharp retort that had leapt to the tip of his tongue.  It wasn’t Molly’s fault Mycroft was behaving like a cross between George Smiley and M. Instead he took in the way she was rubbing her lower back with one hand and the slight tightening of her jaw muscles every few seconds and asked, somewhat contritely, ‘Is my pacing bothering you?’

‘No. I just … I’m sorry John.’

‘Why are you apologising? You aren’t responsible for any of this.’

‘ _Wrong._ Without Molly this wouldn’t be happening at all.’

John could feel the colour draining out of his face as Molly looked past him towards the door, expression flickering through relief to annoyance and then back to relief with a touch of guilt. At which point John lost focus, trying to force himself to turn round. That voice was so familiar, so wonderfully, blessedly familiar and yet it couldn’t be … it wasn’t possible that ...

‘John?’

It was that voice again but now it was uncertain, slightly wobbly and _right behind him_.

Pulling courage from the same part of him that had given strength to his legs each time he’d had to run into the line of fire, he turned and looked up; up into the eyes that had been haunting his dreams for the past three years. The breath left his lungs as fast and hard as if he’d been sucker-punched.

‘How?’ he gasped, unable to stop himself stepping forward, closing the distance as his hands reached for Sherlock, fingers brushing an errant curl off his forehead and tracing the lines and angles of his face, lingering on the places he’d last seen smeared with blood. He felt, rather than saw, Sherlock reciprocate; Sherlock’s hands running up John’s sides, over his shoulders and then coming to rest on John’s back where they started making tiny, jerky circles.

For a moment John’s vision blurred until he remembered he needed to breathe and managed to drag some air into his lungs. Sherlock’s eyes came back into focus, sharp and intent and _God, this is real, Sherlock is really here_.

‘How?’ he said again, a little louder this time. ‘And more to the point why? Why did you do it?’

‘Could we sit down while he explains? Only it’s quite a long story and I’m really feeling quite tired.’

Molly spoke from beside them and for John it was as if she’d broken a spell. Now he could hear Mrs Hudson’s quiet sobs and Greg’s murmurs of comfort and then, as an awful lot of loose ends tied themselves up in the patchwork of his mind, a sick feeling of betrayal welled in his gut.

‘Yes, of course.’ John switched to doctor mode as he turned to her, grateful for a good reason to pull away from Sherlock. ‘You’d probably be more comfy in one of those wing back chairs, better support for your back.’ He scanned her properly, noting that she was rubbing the underside of her bump and that her eyes were clouded with pain. ‘Unless you find lying down more helpful with your Braxton Hicks?’

‘No, sitting is fine.’ Molly winced, hand tightening on John’s arm. ‘I just don’t think I’m ever going to get used to them.’

‘Well you’ve only got another five weeks to go now, love,’ Greg said from the sofa, where he was hugging Mrs Hudson.

‘Is that supposed to be a helpful observation?’ Molly queried with a small smile as she let John ease her into the chair. Greg just gave her a grin and one shouldered shrug in response.

John looked between them, trying to decide if he wanted to know whether the suspicion that had just sprung into his mind was correct.

‘Greg didn’t know,’ Sherlock said, making John jump again. ‘He went almost as white as you did when I walked in.’

‘And you’re ok with this?’ John turned on Greg, unable to tamp down on the hurt inside. ‘You’re perfectly happy that she didn’t tell you anything? That she let you think he was dead!’

‘She told me straight off that she’d made someone a promise, that there was one secret she had that wasn’t hers to tell.’ Greg disentangled himself from Mrs Hudson and stood, moving over to Molly and resting a hand on her shoulder. ‘I told her it didn’t matter to me and I stand by that, regardless of how blown away I am by what she was hiding. I wouldn’t say I’m happy but I’m not upset, either.’

John looked away, shoulders hunching as he moved to the other side of the room. He needed some space, needed to find some perspective on everything before the anger he’d been saving up for Mycroft was detonated by Sherlock instead.

‘No, dear, leave him for a moment.’ Mrs Hudson’s voice trembled but there was a note of steel that left John in no doubt Sherlock would obey without him needing to turn round and confirm it. ‘You can just sit down here and start talking because I, for one, want to know what exactly has been going on.’

‘Yes, Sherlock, I really think that would be best.’ Mycroft spoke from next to the closed door, where he’d been watching proceedings with a politician’s eye. ‘Since everyone is now in twice as much danger thanks for your penchant for dramatics.’

‘Thank you, Mycroft.’ Sherlock attempted to sneer but it was clear his heart wasn’t in it. ‘You know perfectly well that my confirming to them what _Colonel_ Moran already knows makes no difference to how much danger they’re in. He wanted them all dead the minute he realised I was alive, regardless of whether they were or weren’t aware of the fact of my continued existence.’

John was moving back to Sherlock’s side the instant he heard the name Moran; eyes flashing and jaw clenched as he dropped to his knees the better to search Sherlock’s face.

‘Say that again.’

‘He wants you dead, John. You, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade.’ Then Sherlock added, almost as an afterthought, ‘And Molly and me as well, once he’s completed the original mission, I should think.’

‘Not that,’ John snapped, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Mycroft told me this was a life or death situation. I want you to repeat the name.’

‘Moran?’ Sherlock looked and sounded entirely confused. ‘But who he is doesn’t ma …’

‘You mean Sebastian Moran, formerly of the Royal Irish, don’t you?’ John snarled, patience running out as memories thronged in his head. ‘Sebastian Moran, who was probably _the_ best sniper in the British Army? A guy so good he was attached to the same unit as me in Helmand and succeeded in taking out all three of the Taliban snipers that had been plaguing us for weeks within in two days? The Sebastian Moran who turned my gun skills from very good to excellent and who _I_ nicknamed Colonel on account of his practically obsessive love of the fried chicken we got at Bastion. That Moran?’

‘You know him?’ Sherlock’s face paled and his eyes widened.

‘No, I just made all that up!’ John yelled, nostrils flaring as he mentally demoted Sherlock to Private and let Captain Watson take control of giving him the dressing down he so obviously needed.

‘Of course I fucking know him, you idiot! We served together for close on four months. I know what he smokes, what he drinks, what he likes for breakfast. I know that he ended up leaving the army under a cloud in 2008 and I know that it was down to what he was trying to smuggle out of Afghanistan in his kit when he went on R&R. What’s more I know that it wasn’t the oversight he claimed …. Where the hell do you think I got this from?’

He yanked his Sig from his waistband and waved it at Sherlock.

‘You don’t think I brought this out of Afghanistan myself, do you? They brought me from Kandahar to Birmingham unconscious, Sherlock! Do you think they just tucked it under the blankets of my stretcher and the nurses at Selly Oak let me keep it? Dear Lord, our internal security may be piss poor half the time but really, even you shouldn’t underestimate it that much!’

‘I …’ Sherlock faltered, eyes darting round John’s face as John took shaky breaths, face burning red as he struggled to control his temper.

John’s left hand was clenching spasmodically, his right still holding the gun in front of Sherlock, although he wasn’t pointing it at him. Not that it seemed to matter; Sherlock’s face had gone paler than John had ever seen it and his mouth was quivering as if he was on the verge of speech but not quite able to force the words past his lips.

And then suddenly John _knew_ , the last few displaced threads weaving themselves together in John’s head and he understood all of it. It was like a summer sunrise in his mind, glorious and almost blinding in its intensity. Very briefly he wondered if this was how Sherlock felt all the time, making connections out of seemingly innocuous facts until certainty struck at the very core of his being and brought all his nerve endings to sizzling life.

Lowering the gun and letting his gaze drop to the floor he took several deep, slow breaths, taking the time to order his thoughts into something coherent despite being aware that the entire room was silent. They were all waiting on him. Waiting on his words.

Finally he looked back up at Sherlock and started to speak.

‘It’s been Moran this whole time, hasn’t it? That’s why you jumped – Moriarty had a sniper on me, with orders to take me out if you didn’t and that sniper was _him_. Moriarty was the “crazy motherfucker” who Moran told me had hired him for his military expertise, who “valued him more than the arseholes that’d sent him to die over and over again in sandy shit-holes ever did.” God!’

John shuddered in another breath.

‘Moran took Moriarty’s place once he was dead and it’s Moran who you’ve been chasing all this time! That’s where you’ve been; hiding in the shadows, pretending to be dead to keep us safe while you tried to out-hunt one of the best hunters on the planet.’

Sherlock nodded infinitesimally and the last of John’s control deserted him.

‘You complete and total idiot!’

He slammed his hands against Sherlock’s far too bony shoulders, grateful the gun stopped him getting a grip on the other man and just shaking him until he understood how much pain he’d put John through.

‘You were playing against someone you couldn’t understand, someone you couldn’t hope to understand, given how different you are. Shit, Sherlock! This is someone who could wait in one place for days for a target and even then not take the shot if the conditions weren’t right!’

‘I …’

‘ _Shut up_ , Sherlock.’ John’s voice had turned hard and dangerously low. ‘I’m not finished talking yet. You’re supposed to be the genius of our partnership so why couldn’t you find a way to get word to me? What the hell possessed you to do all this alone? Didn’t you think that my experiences might actually be a help in this situation? Did you think at all?

‘God, Sherlock! You’ve been risking yourself all this time when I could have got Moran in the open with a simple text message and Mycroft’s boys could have ended him there and then! None of this … _none of this_ needed to have happened!’

Sherlock heaved in a breath, opened his mouth again but then shut it with a snap, breaking eye contact with John as his shoulders slumped and his chin dropped to his chest in an unmistakeable gesture of defeat.

With Sherlock’s head out of his line of vision John found himself staring into Mycroft’s face, which was almost as shell-shocked as Sherlock’s had been, and his still unquenched rage found its original target.

‘And you! Did you not check Moran’s records to see where he’d been stationed and make the connection? Or are there no mentions of us having served together?’

Mycroft gave one curt shake of his head.

‘And you didn’t question it? Didn’t double check the information? Jesus, Mycroft … how can it not have occurred to you that if Moriarty was capable of creating an entirely new person in _your_ systems, and hiding his true identity completely, that he might have taken the opportunity to ‘tidy’ Moran’s records a little too?’

Mycroft was frozen for a moment but then, with a twitch of his shoulders, found his voice. He answered John in the clipped tones of someone who knew just how much of a cock-up they’d made and, worse, were now required to admit the fact out loud.

‘You are entirely correct. His records give no suggestion you two ever so much as had an opportunity to pass in the corridors of Bastion, _Captain_ Watson, never mind that you were quite so personally acquainted. This is an oversight I will be following up _very_ soon.’

He stepped forward, briefly glancing at John’s hands, still on Sherlock’s shoulders.

‘And whilst your analysis of the situation with Moran is superficially correct, there were other factors, other snipers, other issues. Sherlock has done more in the past three years than stalk Moran.’

Mycroft allowed his eyes to close for a moment before he continued.

‘However, we are where we are and I have just been informed that Moran is now …’ Mycroft waved his other arm at the door. ‘Somewhere in the grounds of my home. Since you’ve enunciated very clearly the unquestionable failings of both Sherlock and myself in this matter up to this point I now bow to your superior knowledge and experience - both of Moran and of situations such as this. I put what happens next entirely in your more than capable hands. Tell me what to do.’

John couldn’t hear anything but total sincerity in Mycroft’s words. After taking a moment to collect himself he released Sherlock and stood, tucking the Sig into the back of his waistband at the same time, consciously drawing himself to attention as he nodded, accepting command of the situation physically as well as mentally.

‘Fine. In that case, I’ll need the plans of the house and the grounds, if you have them.’

‘I’ll fetch them now,’ Mycroft said and was gone, the door swinging shut behind him with an audible click.

John turned back to Sherlock, who was still staring down at the back of his hands, apparently transfixed by them. John opened his mouth, to say what he wasn’t sure but the words turned to ash on his tongue when Sherlock turned his head to look up at him and every minute of the past three years were etched on his gaunt face. The anger that had still been an almost comforting fizz in John’s veins was extinguished in an instant by the anguish and exhaustion he saw oozing from every pore.

‘We’ll talk about this,’ John said, gently, nudging Sherlock until he’d moved over enough that John could sit next to him.

‘We’ll _have_ to talk about this, but …’ He held his hand up to forestall the protest he assumed Sherlock would make, despite Sherlock not having so much as twitched. ‘… We’re not going to do it now. Because right now I need you to help me end this once and for all. We need to make sure that all the pain, all the hurt, all the misery, has a purpose. That it's worth something.’

Sherlock’s murmured yes was barely audible but it didn’t matter, not when his whole body sagged into John’s, John slipping his arm round Sherlock's waist instinctively as Sherlock let his head fall into the crook of John’s neck. It was such an uncharacteristic action for Sherlock to make in public that he couldn’t have signalled his agreement louder with a klaxon and a marching band.

‘Right then,’ Greg said, shooting a concerned look at Sherlock before he briskly rubbed his hands together and squared his shoulders. ‘Now that’s settled, you’d better tell us what you want us to do, John.’


	2. Captain Watson takes command

‘Sit tight for the moment,’ John said in answer to Greg’s question as he gave Sherlock’s waist a reassuring squeeze; although, he admitted, in the privacy of his own head, he wasn’t quite sure which one of them needed the reassurance more. It seemed to work on Sherlock, at any rate, as he gave a very quiet sigh and lifted his head off John’s shoulder. John took that to be as good a signal as any to start talking.

‘I need to know what I’m working with on the ground before I can pull a battle plan together,’ he explained, ‘So until then I may as well share what I know about Moran.’

He let his eyes roam over them all before he continued. Molly met his gaze firmly, a hint of defiance behind the apology still writ plain across her face. Greg, arm still round Molly’s shoulders, gnawed on his bottom lip as he watched John. His expression was a curious mix of amazement and confusion - a look John had seen him direct at Sherlock many times after a particularly startling deduction and he found odd to have it directed at himself - but the set of Greg’s shoulders and general bearing told John that he’d accepted John’s leadership and words as fact. Mrs Hudson was still dabbing at her eyes but her smile was broad and John found the knot in his chest unravelling slightly at her obvious joy at having both her boys by her side.

And then there was Sherlock.

Sherlock was still avoiding his gaze, head bowed, but had contrived to remain pressed against him from knee to shoulder. A fierce protectiveness surged through John as he took in, properly – not just in a clinical way - just how thin Sherlock had become; the frailty of his wrists, the feel of his bones through his far too loose shirt, the almost translucent quality of his skin. For a moment the part of John that loved Sherlock more than was good for him rose to the surface and he had the pressing desire to sweep Sherlock away, back to Baker Street and say to hell with everyone else.

He wanted to wrap him in his arms, hold him until he was certain he could let go without thinking he’d disappear again and then to check him for any injuries he may have sustained in those lost years.  Then he would sit him in his chair and coax him into eating toast slathered in butter and honey and to drink over-sweetened tea and simply be with him, until he looked more like _his_ Sherlock than this broken being beside him did.

John swallowed hard and blinked, cutting that train of thought off completely. Taking care of Sherlock was, though important, a secondary objective and could not be contemplated until Moran was closed down. Not if they were to get out this unscathed. Moriarty had taught him, at the pool that Sherlock was his biggest weakness and Captain Watson didn’t intend to let the lesson go unlearnt. So he gave Sherlock one last squeeze and then stood, straightening his spine as he boxed up all the feelings that weren’t useful to the operation - just as he’d learned to do at Sandhurst and then on operations - smiled round at his motley crew and started to talk.

‘Moran’s good,’ he said bluntly, noting the flicker of chagrin on Sherlock’s face even as he was nodding his agreement. ‘And I don’t just mean as a sniper. He’s a proper all rounder, an excellent tactician with a real nose for trouble. Plus he’s got a punch on him that could fell trees and he fights to win. To be honest I was surprised he never tried for the SAS although he’d probably not have passed the mental evaluation, lots don’t.

‘I learnt a lot from him while he was attached to our unit. I was only a Second Lieutenant then, fresh out of Sandhurst and green enough to plant. I’ve been utilising those lessons ever since.’

‘Molly,’ Greg interrupted John as Molly gave a soft gasp, eyes closing as she shifted in her chair and once again began rubbing the underside of her bump. ‘Molly, love, what’s wrong?’

Molly’s eyes flew open at once, cheeks reddening as she realised everyone’s eyes were on her. ‘Nothing,’ she snapped, fixing Greg with a glare that made John very glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of it. ‘I’m simply almost eight months pregnant with your child. There is nothing _wrong_ with that. The current bout of Braxton Hicks contractions I’m having may not be comfortable but they are normal. This is what is supposed to happen and I don’t need to be fussed over every time I so much as inhale!’

Greg mumbled something that sounded like sorry and everyone else found somewhere more interesting to look until Molly broke the silence, voice falsely bright.

‘But Moran’s not like Moriarty, though, is he John? He can’t be. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been friends.’

‘Yes,’ John agreed as he stood and walked over to the fireplace whilst risking a sidelong look at Molly. The snappishness was so out of character for her it set his medical senses tingling but the set of her jaw made him reconsider pulling the “I’m a doctor” card and insisting on examining her. Pregnancy hormones did strange things to the emotions and besides, she was sensible and it was her body; if she needed help, she’d ask.

Rubbing the back of his neck he returned to issue at hand. ‘You’re right, Molly, but it doesn’t actually help us. It would almost be easier if Moriarty was still the puppet master because Moriarty would be _playing_ with us. He’d want to make sure we knew we were beaten, that we knew we had lost and that we had lost to him.

‘Moran doesn’t care about all that. He has no need to prove how good he is. He knows … that’s enough. Men like him don’t need an audience. The only thing he cares about right now is that he has orders to carry out. It doesn’t matter to him that they came from a man who is now dead, nor that they are three years old. All that matters is that the parameters for action have now been met.’

John noted, out of the corner of his eye, that Mycroft was once again in the room, a large roll of paper in his right hand. John hadn’t heard him come in but it was clear he was listening as intently as everyone else so John merely gave him a nod of acknowledgment and carried on.

‘Last week I could have gone to the pub with Moran and the only danger I would have encountered was the possibility of a nasty hangover. Today however … today he learnt that Sherlock is alive – and no,’ he added as both Sherlock and Mycroft opened their mouths, ‘I don’t want to know how that happened, since I suspect I’m not going to like what I hear and it isn’t directly relevant to what we do from here on in. This fact is that, now he knows Sherlock is alive, I am his first target. If he gets me in his sights then I am dead. No grandstanding, no warning - just dead. Just as everyone else on the hit list will be if he can get to them.’

He raised his chin and looked over three sets of wary eyes and then addressed Sherlock, who was staring at him with undisguised panic.

‘I have no intention of letting that happen. I have no intention of putting any one of us in any more danger than we already are. Mycroft,’ he said, meeting the other man’s gaze squarely, ‘Stick those plans on the table. Sherlock, mark them up.  I need to know all the ways into this house, all the rooms and corridors, especially any that are enclosed like this, and all buildings, structures, tall trees and anything else you think relevant in the grounds that have a clear line of sight onto the house.’

‘What can I …’ Greg started to say as Sherlock shot over to the table, yanking the plans out of Mycroft’s grasp as he went, but John held up a hand to silence him.

‘Mycroft, I presume your assistant is somewhere in the building? And that there is a security detail on the premises?’

‘Correct on both counts. Anthea is co-ordinating. We have five men inside the house, five immediately outside and fifteen covering the perimeter of the grounds. Although we were not expecting Moran to arrive quite so soon.’

‘Good. I’d hate to think you deliberately used us all as bait.’ Mycroft’s face didn’t so much as flicker at the accusation and John decided there were better times to pursue that particular hunch. ‘Anthea needs to be in here. Have her bring everything she needs to communicate with them, whatever weapons you have spare, including a gun for Greg if she can manage it, and have her arrange for a kettle, food and medical supplies brought here too … Oh, and make sure any other staff …’

‘Already removed.’ Mycroft interrupted.

‘Good. But I want all of us in here for the duration. No-one is to leave room unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

‘Well it sort of is,’ Molly said, levering herself up out of the chair with a groan. ‘Given that my bladder is currently being squashed by baby to what seems like a fifth its normal size.’

Mycroft’s smile was slightly brittle and his voice a little higher than normal as he said, ‘That, at least, will not present a problem. The lack of windows is not the only reason I chose this room.’

Stepping round John he reached for a dull brown book directly to the left of the mantelpiece and pulled it forward. At once there was a sharp twang followed the whole bookshelf juddering away from the well.

‘When this house was built,’ Mycroft said as he gave the shelf a tug so that it slid across the front of the bookshelves to the left, revealing a dark wood door inset behind. ‘It was considered the height of fashion to have a concealed room somewhere on the premises. My ancestors were nothing if not fashionable.’

‘The _French_ side were fashionable.’ Sherlock cut in, without looking up from the map. ‘The Yorkshire contingent were all unutterably gauche.’

Mycroft gave a long suffering sniff but otherwise didn’t respond to Sherlock as he pulled a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked the door.

‘I have no idea what it was originally used for as I wasn’t aware of its existence until Father had it refitted when I was six. He said this was infinitely better whilst working than having to walk half a mile down draughty corridors and having your thought processes disturbed. I must say I agree with him.’

‘Useful,’ John acknowledged, as the door swung away from them to reveal and elegantly decorated bathroom. He then stepped into the room itself and turned, pulling the shelving unit back into place in front of him until it clicked and then releasing it, smiling as everyone else came back into view. 

Pulling the key from the front of the door and re-inserting it so it could be used from the inside he left the room and asked, ‘Is that the only key?’

‘Yes.’ Mycroft’s smile showed that he’d followed John’s line of thought. The other three, however – Sherlock was still scribbling frantically over the map – had identical expressions of confusion on their face.

‘If there is a problem then it’s big enough to hide you both,’ John said, moving out of the doorway and gesturing for Molly and Mrs Hudson to have a look.

‘If I tell you to,’ he continued, ‘you both get in here and you don’t come out until one of us knocks on the door and says that it’s safe.’

‘Yes, dear,’ Mrs Hudson replied as Molly just nodded, rubbing her bump with both hands. John opened his mouth, about risk her wrath again by asking if she was still in pain, when Sherlock appeared at his elbow, forehead furrowed and with a streak of ink across one cheek.

‘We need a code word, John.’

‘Yes, we do,’ John agreed as he absently licked his thumb and went to wipe the mark away, causing Sherlock to jerk back and shoot him a look of complete horror.

‘You’re covered in ink,’ he said by way of explanation, cupping Sherlock’s chin and resuming his ministrations. ‘Hold still.’

‘How about …’ Greg didn’t get to finish his sentence, Mrs Hudson shushing him immediately.

‘No, you can’t say it out loud.’ She fixed him with an incredibly stern look. ‘You don’t know who might be listening. Go and write it down, show it to everyone and then put it in there, after poor Molly’s used the facilities.’ She chivvied them all away from the doorway, giving a grateful Molly a pat on the arm as she passed. ‘Honestly, you should know all this sort of thing already, what with you being a policeman.’

‘You’re completely right, Mrs Hudson,’ Greg said with a disarming smile as he headed over to the desk and scribbled quickly on a notepad. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘When you’ve all quite finished acting like we’re in one of those god awful films John used to make me watch,’ Sherlock said somewhat petulantly, wriggling out John’s grip and glancing at the notepad as Greg handed it to John. ‘The plans are marked up.’

‘Right,’ John said, shaking his head as he read _Meretricious_ in Greg’s looping scrawl before ripping the page off the pad and handing it to Mycroft, who was talking softly into his phone.

Then he made his way over to the table and stood close enough to Sherlock that he could feel the other man’s body heat through his clothes. ‘Come on then. Tell me what I’m looking at.’

 

oOo

 

Two hours later the room was transformed. The desk and table pushed together against the wall furthest from the door and hosting three large monitors and two laptops, courtesy of two surly, silent, black-clad men that followed Anthea into the room only to be dismissed back to their posts with a curt hand gesture once they’d served their purpose. The annotated plans of the house and grounds had been carefully stuck on the shelves - thanks to Mrs Hudson producing a packet of blu-tak from her handbag - and now bristled with post-it notes. The chairs and sofa had been moved into a semi-circle around the fireplace and the corner nearest the door was set up as a refreshment station, which Mrs Hudson had taken control of at once.

Sherlock had – first alone and then with Mycroft’s apparently welcome assistance - given John an overview of the house plus the bare bones of his three year game of cat and mouse with the remains of Moriarty’s organisation. Then Anthea had provided as much detail as she had available on the current situation.

It wasn’t much.

She knew that Moran was in the grounds because they now only had five functional men on the perimeter, rather than fifteen. The camera coverage was good enough that she was certain he hadn’t attempted to approach the house. More than that … It was all guess work. Which wasn’t fine but it was familiar, the knot of nerves in the pit of his stomach and the jolt of adrenaline as he worked scenarios and plans thought his head left John feeling more like himself that he had for, well, for three years.

Certain - thanks to Sherlock’s thoroughness - that he hadn’t overlooked anything vital, John spent a good ten minutes staring at the plans and revising possibilities in his mind. Then he nodded, once, briskly and turned to Anthea, who was perched on the edge of the desk, blackberry in hand but eyes on the two open duffle bags at her feet.

‘I recognise gun calluses when I see them,’ John said with a smile and quick wave toward her hands, ‘So I’m hoping you’re going to tell me you’re proficient with everything you’ve brought.’

She grinned back and hopped off the desk, scooping up the semi-automatic Beretta which was the topmost gun in the first bag, bringing it to her shoulder in one swift, sure motion. John saw a flash of envy pass across Molly’s face as she paced in front of the unlit fire – her continuing attempt to appease the persistent Braxton Hicks she just couldn’t shift - and he couldn’t blame her; Anthea looked as if the shotgun were an extension of her body and the effortless way she handled it screamed competence and control.

‘This one is mine,’ Anthea said, lowering it and sweeping her hand over the walnut stock in a gentle caress. ‘As is this.’ She flicked away her blazer to reveal a Glock tucked into a holster on her hip.

‘The rest of them are bits and pieces I’ve gathered over the years I’ve worked for Mr Holmes.’ She tilted her head towards Mycroft who acknowledged her with a nod. ‘I’m equally at home with them all. The ammunition is in the rucksack.’ She nudged the bag with her foot.

‘Excellent,’ John said as he bent to sort through the bag himself, please to see three SIG P226’s and two Browning L891’s alongside another shotgun, this one a traditional double barrelled 12 bore and an SA80 assault rifle. They were better equipped than he’d hoped and, after a quick check on the volume of ammo, he felt his confidence rise slightly. He didn’t want any of them to have to fire a shot, not at all, but he did want them capable of defending themselves. After all, he knew from bitter experience that what you wanted and what you got when you were under attack were completely different things.

‘Good choice,’ he said to Sherlock, who had picked up one of the SIG’s and snapped a 10 round magazine into it with an ease that hadn’t been there three years ago. ‘Greg, do you want a SIG as well?’

Greg, who’d been hovering rather anxiously behind Molly, strode over to John.

‘Whatever you think. I … It’s a long time since Baskerville and I’ve never had any formal training.’

‘I issued you with a SIG then, Detective Inspector,’ Anthea said, holding one out to him. ‘And a Browning would be more suitable for Molly and Mrs Hudson anyway.’

‘True,’ John agreed, as Sherlock took the gun out of Greg’s hand and loaded it. ‘I think they’d prefer a genuine safety catch and the slightly more comfortable grip. Do you want to do the honours?’

Anthea didn’t bother to reply, just got on with loading them, so John took a deep breath and walked over to Mycroft, who was watching everyone with the detached air of a hawk circling over the landscape for pleasure rather than hovering on the hunt.

‘Mycroft,’ John said rather formally, allowing his body to snap to attention again. ‘I’m ready to brief everyone but … Are you still happy for _me_ to issue the instructions to your men?’

‘Of course he is.’ Sherlock spoke before Mycroft could open his mouth, voice low and rough as he briefly brushed his hand over John’s shoulder and looked straight into his eyes before he continued. ‘He trusts you. We _all_ do.’

John swallowed thickly, the sudden tightening of his throat and burning at the back of his eyes meaning he could do nothing but stand and stare at Sherlock until he could be sure his voice wouldn’t wobble when he spoke.

‘Thank you,’ he managed after a minute, ‘that ... yes. Well, I …’

‘Your instructions, Captain Watson?’ Mycroft said softly, but not softly enough that the spell wasn’t broken. John tore his eyes from Sherlock’s and took a gulp of his now cold tea while he got a hold of himself.

‘Yes, right.’ 

‘First, Greg, I want you …’ he started, turning to where Greg had been standing only to realise he’d moved; back over to Molly who was now clinging to his arm, face screwed up with what John realised was the effort of not crying out in pain.

Mycroft’s eyes went almost comically wide as he took in the sight of the puddle that was forming at her feet.

‘Did she just …’

‘No, Mycroft, she did not,’ John said sharply as he grabbed a gun belt from the bag and put it on, slipping his Sig into the holster, wondering as he did if there was any way the situation could get any worse. Catching the look of complete confusion on Mycroft’s face he added;

‘That was her waters breaking, Mycroft. Molly’s in labour.’


	3. Further Complications

‘Labour?’ Greg said, as a look of complete bewilderment swept across his face. ‘No … that’s not right … They’re just bad Braxton Hicks.’ His voice turned pleading as he added, ‘Aren’t they, Molls?’

John reached them just as Molly’s contraction abated and she shook her head, murmuring, ‘No, love, I think this is the real thing.’    

‘Oh. Right …’ Greg let John take Molly’s arm and stepped back, rubbing his hands over his face and then shoving them roughly through his hair. His breathing had sped up and one leg was bouncing frantically. ‘OK. Yeah. Labour. Right.’

‘Greg, take nice, slow breaths and try to stay calm,’ John ordered as he began helping Molly toward the circle of seats. ‘Molly,’ he said in a much softer tone, ‘everything is going to be fine. Your body knows what it’s doing and I’m going help.’

‘I know you will,’ she said, stopping abruptly, hands pressing hard into small of her back. ‘I just wish little one had better timing.’

‘You can’t halt Mother Nature, love.’ Mrs Hudson smiled gently at her, moving to her other side and helping John to get her moving again.

Molly gave a half laugh, half sob and John felt, rather than saw, her hesitation as they reached the sofa. 

‘I know staying standing is helping with the pain,’ he said as soothingly as he could, ‘but I need you to lie down, just for a moment, so I can see how close we are to meeting little one.’

‘Right, okay,’ Molly said, with a decisive nod and a grateful smile as she eased herself down by degrees, finally getting as horizontal as she could manage, head resting on the sofa arm. ‘I suppose I should have realised what was happening earlier when I felt little one move down but they said at the class that it could happen up to six weeks before the birth and I … Oh! Oh dear, here comes another one. I …’

Whatever she had been intending to say was lost to a low moan, the hand she wasn’t cradling her bump with reaching out for Greg. Who didn’t move to take it, didn’t even look like he’d seen it, his face blank, pale and tinged with green. John looked across the room, caught Sherlock’s eye and nodded towards Greg before dealing with Molly’s immediate needs himself.

‘Here,’ he offered his own hand, clenching his jaw as she took it and squeezed, bone-grindingly hard. ‘Breathe through it, Molly. Just like they showed you at the classes you were talking about.’

‘Trying,’ Molly gasped, her other hand digging into the sofa back as she forced herself to regulate her breathing.

‘Succeeding,’ John assured her as her bruising grip on his hand relaxed slightly.

Unfortunately Sherlock was having less success with Greg, who yanked himself out of Sherlock’s tentative grip and practically danced across the room in his agitation. ‘God, this is all wrong! It’s supposed to happen in five weeks, not now! And in a hospital, with midwives, and doctors, and all the stuff and the things!’

‘Lestrade, really,’ Sherlock said as he moved towards him again, ‘you need to …’

At the sound of Sherlock’s voice the last of Greg’s restraint left him and he spun, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders. ‘I need?!?’ Sherlock went limp in his hold but it didn’t appease him. If anything it made him worse, shaking Sherlock as he yelled, ‘I need to what, Sherlock? What wonderful advice do you have for me when this is all your fucking fault! Molly wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you dragging us all into your mess, you complete and utter tosser! This is _all_ down to you!’

John was just about to wrench his hand away from Molly, who had her eyes closed as she panted thought the end of her contraction, and try to calm everything down – although he could completely understand Greg’s frustration even if he didn’t entirely agree with his reasoning - when Mrs Hudson got there first.

‘Let Sherlock go this instant, Detective Inspector,’ she ordered as she marched across the room. ‘And look at me.’

He ignored her, continuing to shake Sherlock - who was rapidly turning the colour of fresh snow – and was rewarded by having one hand dragged unceremoniously from Sherlock’s shoulder and his face slapped. Hard.

‘I said let him go,’ she said more gently as Greg blinked myopically, body trembling and chest heaving as he unclenched his other hand and Sherlock staggered away to lean against the table.

‘Mrs Hudson?’

‘Yes, I just slapped you. I’ll do it again if you don’t start behaving like a grown man. Do I need to?’

‘No, Mrs Hudson,’ Greg muttered sheepishly, rubbing his rapidly reddening cheek.

‘Go and wash your face, take a few minutes to yourself and then come back when you’re fit to be in polite company.’

Greg complied without question, still trembling a little but otherwise looking far better than he had a few seconds ago.

‘I want to be her when I grow up,’ Molly whispered to John.

‘You and me both,’ John responded somewhat absently, still fighting down the instinct to go to Sherlock, who was now being fussed over by Mrs Hudson and certainly didn’t need him doing the same.

‘It’s all been a bit of a shock for everyone,’ Molly said, giving his hand a much softer squeeze. ‘But it’ll be alright now, John. I know it will.’

John looked at her and suddenly found his airways somewhat constricted by lump in his throat. Here she was, in labour five weeks too early, trapped in a house by a psychotic sniper and with no access to medical care other than him, and yet she was still trying to make him feel better.

‘You are a remarkable woman, Molly Hooper,’ he croaked, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

‘I’m just me,’ she said, pushing her hair back off her face and struggling to sit up. ‘In the end that’s all you can do. Be yourself, just as hard as you can.’

‘Very true,’ John agreed, suddenly understanding completely why Sherlock had confided in her rather than him and acknowledging that it was the best choice he could have made. And then he gave himself a mental shake and told himself to get on with the matter in hand.

‘So now I’d better be me and take a look at everything … If you’re ok with me doing that?’

‘Oh …um, yes,’ Molly’s already flushed face went a little bit pinker as she lay back down. ‘Good job I put a dress on, makes everything more accessible!’

‘Do you want Mrs Hudson to help you?’

‘You’re going to see everything anyway,’ Molly said, her tone practical as she pulled the dress aside and motioned for John to pull her knickers down. ‘Besides, you’ve seen it all before … Um ... not me, I mean but … you know … other women’s bits … um …’

‘Yes, yes I have.’ He gave her a smile as she tailed off into mortified silence, then belatedly realised he needed to wash his hands. Opening his mouth, to say he'd be back in a moment, he shut it again abruptly as Mrs Hudson hove into view, pulling a bottle of sanitising hand gel out of her bag.

'Just what I needed, Mrs Hudson. Thanks,' he said as he accepted the bottle, and coated his hands with the gel. Then, with another reassuring smile at Molly, he started the examination, concentrating on clinically assessing the situation whilst silently thanking the woman who’d gone into premature labour at the surgery several weeks ago for refreshing his skills in this particular area.

 _Right,_ he thought as he finished the internal exam, _she's six centimetres dilated and the contractions are coming around five minutes apart_.

After another application of the gel he ran his hands over the bump itself, which, now he was looking at it properly, was visibly lower than it had been when they’d arrived. He pressed as firmly as he dared to try and determine the positioning.

_Couple that with the fact the head is engaged and as far as I can feel, the baby is the right way round – spine to the back – it looks like we’re in for a textbook, if fast, labour._

‘Everything looks and feels absolutely fine,’ he told Molly as he eased her dress back down.

‘Just like you said.’ She smiled at him brightly as she tried to get up. ‘My body knows exactly what to doing. And right now it wants to be upright.’

‘That’s the spirit, dear,’ Mrs Hudson said as she joined John in helping her up and off the sofa. Looking past her, John could see Anthea steering a still bone-white Sherlock back towards the main table where he let Mycroft help him into a chair and press a glass of water into his hand.

 _What the hell has he been through?_ John thought with more than a hint of worry. _He’s got to be right at the end of his endurance, mentally and physically, if he’s not even making a token protest at Mycroft taking care of him._

‘Molly?’

John looked over to see Greg emerge from the bathroom, still pale – apart from the vivid hand print on his right cheek - and visibly worried, but back in control of himself once more.

‘Molly, I …’

‘It’s alright, Greg.’ She held out her hands, beckoning him over to her with a waggle of her fingers, and this time he responded, striding over and wrapping his arms round her with infinite care. And not a moment too soon, Molly crying out and clinging to him as another contraction hit.

‘It’s alright, John, I’ve got her,’ Greg said. John released a breath hadn’t known he’d been holding and, for the  moment, mentally handed responsibility for Molly over to Greg and to Mrs Hudson; who was now rubbing Molly’s back and murmuring to her as Greg kept her upright. Straightening up properly he pivoted back towards Sherlock, Anthea and Mycroft. Sherlock was still sat at the table, flanked by the other two, and all of them were riveted to the flickering screens.

‘Right,’ he said as he strode over, quickly reorganising the plan in his head so that Greg was not required to do anything other than remain by Molly’s side. ‘This doesn’t really change anything apart from the speed we’re going to move at. Anthea, Mycroft, I don’t care who gives the orders but I want the men to …’

His words died on his lips as three heads turned towards him, all wearing identical expressions of suppressed anxiety. It was Mycroft who spoke.

‘I’m afraid the men are no longer operational, John. Sebastian Moran has seen fit to bring the fight to us.’

‘He’s got inside,’ John stated flatly, pulling his SIG out and squeezing the trigger enough to cock the gun but not enough to fire it. Then he jogged over to the main door and checked the lock and bolts. ‘Where, precisely?’

When there was no answer he spun on his heels and strode back over, gun remaining trained toward the door despite the fact he wasn’t looking in that direction.

‘Where is he? And how long has he been in here?’ John wasn’t shouting but the edge in his voice was unmistakable.

‘We’re not sure where he is,’ Mycroft said, unconsciously straightening his shoulders.

‘What?!’

‘What Mr Holmes means is that we are not certain he’s inside,’ Anthea said calmly, stepping toward the plans of the house and inclining her head in a mute request for John to follow. Which he did, lowering the gun and clicking the de-cocker. He didn’t holster it, though, and angled himself so he could still see the door.

‘We lost the remaining five on the perimeter as they were moving to cover the downed operatives’ positions. Then the three cameras that were trained on the main entrance were shot out. Two of the outside team went to investigate. Then we lost them and ...’

‘Let me guess. You sent the other three to obvious observation points to try and get eyes on the scene and then, when they went down too, you sent the men on the inside up to the roof to try and take him out from there.

‘The decision was mine,’ Mycroft said, chin lifting as he spoke.

‘Obviously.’ John didn’t even bother to tamp down on the sarcastic retort bubbling up inside. ‘Maybe you should have painted targets on them as well, just in case Moran couldn’t manage even with all the help you’d already given him!’

‘I …’

John didn’t give Mycroft the chance to defend himself.

‘Didn’t it occur to you that Moran might be counting on you doing it by the book?’

Mycroft swallowed visibly before replying. ‘I may have made a miscalculation in that respect.’

‘Damn right you did! And what happened to waiting for my orders?’ 

‘I …’ Mycroft didn’t get any further, Sherlock – who had turned back to the screens when Anthea had begun explaining - cut him off with a curt ‘John!’

‘What?’ John was at Sherlock’s side in an instant, arm instinctively slipping around his shoulders.

In answer Sherlock pointed to the left hand screen, where he’d brought up the two black and white CCTV feeds showing the entrance hall. The alcove to the right of the main door was darker than its counterpart on the left, and the darkness seemed to be shifting inside it.

‘He’s here,’ John said, just as he heard Molly gasp and swear. Looking down at his watch he noted that the contractions were now four minutes apart.

‘We have to take him out now,’ Sherlock said, looking up at John. ‘He can’t know the layout of the house and he’ll assume we still have men inside. Other than us, I mean. If I go now …’

‘No.’ John’s voice was the dead calm found only in the eye of a storm.

‘John, please.’

‘No.’ John clenched his jaw tightly, inhaling through his nose and then letting the breath out slowly. Sherlock stood, stumbling as he tried to get his balance.

‘John, I …’

‘Don’t, Sherlock. This is not your decision any more, it is mine. So no one is going off alone.’ John spoke far more harshly than he’d intended but couldn’t seem to moderate his voice. ‘And for God’s sake, sit back down before you fall down.’

Glancing round he saw an energy bar and a can of Coke on the side, snatched them up and shoved them at Sherlock.

‘I have no idea when the last time you ate or slept was but you have to get these into you this instant. I don’t need another medical emergency to deal with.’

Sherlock’s hands were trembling as he took the proffered items and sank back into the chair, but he managed to pop the can open and took a sip; and then another, longer drink.

‘Thank you,’ John said quietly, before closing his eyes and shutting out everything around him for a moment.

 _Think, Watson_ , he told himself. _It’s a mess for sure, but it’s not completely buggered. Yet. Yes, you would have realised immediately Moran was testing the waters and wouldn’t have done what Mycroft did but …_

‘That’s it.’ John’s eyes sprang open and he was aware a feral smile had plastered itself across his face. ‘ _I_ wouldn’t have reacted like this at all.’

‘You said.’ Mycroft’s tone would have made most people shiver but John was in no mood to care.

‘Moran knows I’m here and he knows me … knows how I operate, how I think. And everything he’s seen of the security so far will have told him I’m not involved, that I’m just here as a civilian.’

He pulled his jumper up and over his head in one swift movement.

‘Like Sherlock said, he’ll be expecting more generic goons to be sent to handle him and, knowing him, he’s going to stay put until the first ones arrive and then try and use them to lead him to us. We’re not going to give him that chance.’

His shirt went the same way as the jumper, leaving him in a black t-shirt and dark navy jeans, the holster low on his hips.

‘Anthea, you’re with me. _I’m_ going to go in on ground level and get him into the open. _You_ are going to take him out from the gallery above. Pick your weapon, get that ear piece I saw earlier up and running and get ready to go. We’re heading out in five.’

Anthea nodded decisively and reached for a rifle as John turned to Mycroft.  

‘Mycroft, I need you to run comms for me. You know this place best, so you can guide me down there as quickly and quietly as possible, and you’ll be better able to track him if something goes wrong and we don’t take him out in the entrance hall.’

Sherlock stood, shaking his head as if he were just waking up. ‘What about me?’ he almost whispered.

‘Get your gun on, get a dozen spare mags and pick your spot in here. You’ll be the last line of defence. Whatever happens you do _not_ let Moran though that door.’

‘I want to come with you, John.’ Sherlock ruffled his hair violently. ‘I don’t want you going out there without me.’

‘We don’t have enough people, Sherlock. Molly needs Greg with her and Mycroft, whilst excellent with his sword stick, isn’t at home with a gun the way you seem to be now.’

Sherlock crowded right into John’s personal space. ‘I’ll go with Anthea then, and you stay here. You can look after Molly and …’

‘I’m not arguing with you, I’m telling you, Sherlock.’ John stood firm, hand pressed to Sherlock’s chest, trying to ignore the frantic thundering of the heart he could feel pounding against his palm. ‘I’m a soldier. I may not serve Queen and country anymore but I still have the skills.’

‘So do I. While I was away I …’

‘I don’t care what you did or didn’t do while you were pretending to be _dead_ ,’ John said, sharply enough to make Sherlock catch his breath. ‘You couldn’t match Moran then because you weren’t _trained_ for combat, and you certainly can’t now. You’re barely in a fit state to stand, never mind take anyone on. You’re shaking with exhaustion for fucks sake!’

‘I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried …’

‘Enough!’ John roared, cutting him off. ‘There isn’t time for this. You played the hero three years ago without so much as a by-your-leave. Don’t even think about trying to stop me doing what is necessary now.’

Sherlock’s eyes snapped wide and he stepped back as if he’d been slapped. Guilt, fear and desperation chased themselves across his features.

‘John, I …’

‘You told me you trusted me not half an hour ago,’ John said more softly, forcing himself not to reach for Sherlock. ‘Now you have to show me you meant it.’

Sherlock blinked and then dropped his head. ‘I just …’

‘I know, Sherlock.’ John cut him off again, not willing to hear the words he was sure would follow. ‘But the sooner I go, the sooner Moran is dealt with and the sooner we can get Molly to a hospital. I’m not going alone and I promise I’ll come back.’

‘Please, you can’t just …’ Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper.

John opened his mouth - to say what he didn’t know - but Mrs Hudson saved him the need.

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ she called from where she was kneeling at Molly’s side. ‘Stop being so silly and do something useful.’ Her voice softened as she added, ‘John knows what he’s doing, love.’

‘Yes, he does,’ Sherlock said, stepping right back into John’s personal space again. He mouthed rather than spoke the next words but John heard them as if they’d been screamed to the heavens.

‘I do trust you.’

John closed his eyes for a moment, letting his hands rest on Sherlock’s shoulders.

‘Thank you. Now please, get your gun and do as I asked. Lock and barricade the door when we go and don’t let us back in unless we use the code word.’

Sherlock’s mouth flexed unhappily and then he nodded, swirling away and over to the monitors just as Molly started to moan again.

John looked at his watch. Only three and a half minutes between contractions that were lengthening in duration every time. If they didn’t get out there now and take Moran down he’d have the bastard at the door and be trying to shoot him and deliver a baby at the same time. Which was no way for any child to enter the world.

‘Greg, Molly.’ John crouched down carefully at Molly’s feet. She’d lost the battle with staying vertical and was now sitting on a swath of towels on Mycroft’s antique rug. Her red, sweaty face and air of resigned concentration was a stark contrast to the still pale and panicky looking Greg she was using as a back rest as she worked through the latest contraction. ‘I’m going to take Moran out as quickly as I can, so we can get you to hospital as fast as possible. I know the timing isn’t great but I just need to check how baby is doing before I go.’

Molly nodded jerkily as she fought to breath through the pain, shifting her legs apart as John leant closer. Greg made a strangled sound in the back of his throat but when John shot him a quizzical look he just nodded too. Even so, John tried to spend as little time as possible on the examination.

‘Everything looks just fine. All exactly as it should be,’ he said, trying to keep the relief that she was only one more centimetre dilated out of his voice. ‘You just keep breathing through the contractions, Molly, let Greg and Mrs Hudson help you, and don’t worry about anything.’

‘What if she needs to start pushing?’ Greg asked, voice trembling slightly. Molly’s face told John she’d wondered the same thing.

‘You aren’t dilated enough to move into the final stage of labour just yet, so don’t worry about that for the moment.’ John knew he was prevaricating but he really didn’t know what else to say other than a flat out “don’t”. He smiled, hoping it wasn’t too brittle and added, ‘I’ll be back before you’ve notice I’m gone. Just keep breathing through the contractions, ride them out, stay as calm as you can.’

‘And thank God we’ve got a doctor in the house,’ Mrs Hudson said with a smile as Molly sagged back against Greg, looking more than a little exhausted.

‘You’re doing great,’ John said again, giving Molly’s now free hand a squeeze.

‘So’re you,’ she murmured as Greg kissed her forehead and reached for a bottle of water. ‘So’re we all.’

‘I won’t be long.’

John stood as he spoke, briefly pressed a hand to Greg’s shoulder and then moved back to the other side of the room, accepting the ear piece from Anthea and let her fix a mic to his t-shirt collar. It was a pain that they didn’t have more than one of these - he’d have like to be able to communicate with Anthea as well as Mycroft - but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Besides, Mycroft could keep him updated on Anthea’s position far more safely than she could.

‘We need to be fast,’ John said, shoving the spare SIG into the back of his trousers and tucking his t-shirt back over it.

‘Noted,’ Anthea responded dryly.

‘Where’s Moran now, Mycroft?’ John asked as he wiggled the ear piece into a more comfortable position.

‘He’s still in the main hall. Doesn’t appear to be moving at all.’ Mycroft’s voice sounded odd coming directly into his ear as well as from across the room. ‘I can only presume that he’s waiting for us to make our move, just as you predicted.’

‘Is he using those pretentious statues as cover?’ Anthea asked.

‘Indeed. And they are not pretentious, my dear. They are heirlooms.’

‘Poor heir,’ Anthea muttered for John alone before speaking at a normal volume. ‘Ready then?’

‘Yes. Mycroft, directions please.’

‘Anthea, take the servants stairs to the lower pink drawing room. That room opens out onto the corridor leading to the left side of the gallery. It’s all carpeted and none of the lights are on. You should be able to take your pick of positions. John … I presume you want a more obvious entrance, so I suggest you go back the way you came. You’ll have a longer walk so Anthea should be in position before you reach the hallway.’

‘He’ll hear you coming, it’s pretty much oak and marble all the way down the main corridor.’ Anthea said.

‘Good.’ John nodded, resettling his holster. ‘I want him to at that point. He’ll be cautious but he won’t be expecting it to be me out there and that might make him a little more careless than he’d otherwise be. Or at least over-confident. Plus he’ll not be able to get a shot at me without exposing himself and we can use that. I’m sure between my skills of persuasion, and his need to take me out, I can get him into a position where you can deliver a surprise of your own.’

Anthea flashed him an unholy grin and patted the Glock on her hip with the rifle in her right hand. ‘It will be my pleasure. Are we good to go?’

John nodded and took one last look behind him. Mrs Hudson was busying herself next to Greg and Molly and he realised she was putting the guns they’d been allocated within reach, whilst keeping up a light chatter about something Mrs Turner’s sister’s daughter had done, making both Greg and Molly laugh.

‘England really would fall without her,’ Sherlock said, following John’s gaze as he returned to John’s side. 

John said nothing, just nodded and reached for Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock laced their fingers together and tugged him round so they were facing each other, scant inches between them. Close enough to kiss, the bit of John’s hindbrain that wanted to get straight to the making up bit pointed out. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and dark and there was a depth of feeling in them that made John’s chest hurt. For a moment everything else faded away and it was just them, together, close enough to breathe each other’s air. John could feel every place they were almost touching like a brand on his skin and their entwined fingers practically pulsed.

And then Anthea gave a cough from the doorway and the world hove back into view.

‘It will be okay, I promise,’ he murmured and then stepped back, giving Sherlock’s hand one brief, tight squeeze before relinquishing it.

‘We won’t be long,’ he said, to the room at large this time, and then slipped through the door after Anthea.

‘I’ll be waiting,’ Sherlock said as he closed it behind them.


	4. Of Life And Death

John briefly wished for the night vision goggles that the Royal Marines had let him play with when he’d been attached to one of their platoons for a couple of months during his second tour. From here – crouched behind a large dark wood dresser – he’d have been able to see the green glow of body heat and be certain Moran was still where they’d first seen him.

 _Anthea is in position_. Mycroft’s voice was crystal clear in his ear. _She’ll only need him just out of the alcove to get a clear shot._

‘Roger,’ he breathed back. ‘Going on the count of three, two, one …’

It was almost like being back in training, when they’d been taught the basics of avoiding long and medium range fire. It wasn’t about being quiet, it was about being fast and utilising the cover to its maximum advantage. In a straight corridor populated with various items of antique furniture it wasn’t much, but he could “furniture hop” down the right side, limiting the visual from where Moran was hidden. Except when the first shot rang out it was close enough to his head to have him diving for cover where there was none and then having to scramble into the lea of a grandfather clock as several more bullets danced around his feet.

He bit back a curse and stared at the striations in the oak floor. Mycroft’s rather horrified _He’s in one of the alcoves on the left_ confirmed what the marks had already told him. When the hell had Moran moved? Not that it mattered. What mattered was that Anthea was in entirely the wrong place, he wasn’t much better positioned and they had no way of communicating with each other. That said, it was obvious Anthea was highly trained and would know what needed to be done. All he had to do was help things along.

‘I’m going to draw his fire. Try and get me an exact position,’ he spoke softly, directly into the mic and then, before Mycroft could comment, darted out, across to the left of the corridor.

Several more shots, the last catching his left thigh just as he reached the imposing cabinet that was the last piece of furniture before the corridor opened into the entrance hall. He pressed his hand to it on instinct but it was stinging rather than burning and he only gave the rip in his jeans and slight graze a cursory glance before focusing back on what was going on in front of him.

 _Second or third alcove from the door. I can’t be more precise, the angle of the camera is too sharp_ , Mycroft said. 

There were no more gun shots but he could hear Moran breathing and so didn’t dare risk further speech. Thankfully Mycroft interpreted his silence correctly and continued to provide information. _Anthea used your movement to cover hers. She’s at the top of the left staircase. She won’t be able to cross the landing undetected unless …_ Mycroft’s sentence tailed off and, in a flash of insight, he realised it was because Sherlock could hear him and he didn’t want to actually say the word decoy aloud. He was sparing Sherlock’s sensibilities! Of all the …

Anger flared again in the pit of John’s stomach. Anger at Sherlock for playing him for a fool for three years. Anger at Mycroft for assisting him. Anger at Moriarty for treating people as things and causing all this to happen in the first place. And most of all, anger at the man he’d thought to call friend who was, even now, training a gun on his hiding place and waiting for him to make a mistake.

‘Fuck this for a lark,’ he muttered under his breath and then flung himself directly into Moran’s main line of fire, where no sane soldier would ever consider going, and powered toward the curve of the staircase that would provide him cover right at the edge of the entrance hall. He slid the last few feet on his stomach, making the best use – as far as he was concerned - of the polished marble.

The stream of shots that accompanied his manoeuvre went wide, Moran shooting at the path the majority of soldiers serving Her Majesty would have taken. John began the countdown in his head. He’d only reached seven when Moran spoke.

‘Well, well, well. Here’s a turn up.’ His broad southern Irish drawl echoed round the hall. It was so familiar, pulled up so many good memories from John’s past and yet now it sent a shiver down John’s spine. ‘Johnny Boy rides again. And here I was thinking I was playing against the southern pansy.’

‘Who says you aren’t?’ John called as he pulled himself into a sitting position and forced himself to regulate his breathing. He may have spent the past three years keeping his mind off the loss of Sherlock via dawn runs in Regent’s Park and beating the crap out of the punch bag Mrs Hudson had let him put up in 221C but he was still pushing 40 and there was only so much his body could take.

‘That ponce couldn’t have fooled me like this. Nah, this is all pure Watson. Distraction, doggedness and keeping on fecking pushing ’til you finish it.’ There was a noise that was somewhere between a cough and a laugh. ‘I always said you were wasted in the Fusiliers. The SAS wouldn’t have known what hit them.’

John didn’t say anything, slowly and silently shifting from sitting to crouching and slipping his SIG out of its holster. Not silently enough, apparently, as another two shots took out chunks of the banister above John’s head. Yet still he did nothing.

‘Fecking come on, Watson. Fight me.’

‘Or you could just give it up. You don’t have to die here, Moran.’

‘I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

Silence. John hoped it would provoke Moran into wasting a few more bullets. After a few minutes it became clear it wouldn’t. John was just weighing up taunting over offers of leniency when Moran spoke again.

‘Okay, Watson, let’s stop playing games and do this honourably. Just you and me, one on one. No guns … and no audience.’

A single shot rang out, the CCTV camera above John’s head disintegrated. Another shot took out the one on the opposite side. _Third alcove not second but I’ve lost all visuals now_ , Mycroft said into his ear. John hmm’d his acknowledgment into the mic and tried not to sigh with relief that Anthea was still undetected.

‘Hand to hand combat, Moran? Isn’t that a bit beneath you?’

‘You forget, I remember training with you. Feck it, I remember training you. I know you can more than match me with a gun.’ There was a clatter from the shadows and an SA80 slid across the floor, slamming into the statue on the opposite side of the hallway. ‘This way it’ll just be about us.’

‘Throw your sidearm out and I’ll consider it.’

John was up and running even before Moran had started to protest, rolling across the floor and right in front of the statue Moran was using for cover as bullets pinged around him. He pressed his back against it and swiftly checked he’d not taken any more injuries, Moran’s bark of laughter doing nothing to ease his nerves. Had it been enough? Was Anthea in position? Or was this the part where his luck ran out?

 _What’s going on?_ Mycroft demanded in his ear. _I heard more shots and I DON’T HAVE VISUAL._

John didn’t dare speak, instead tapping his chest with one finger, right next to the mic. If Mycroft didn’t know Morse code then he wasn’t the man John thought he was.

‘You throw your sidearm out and then I’ll throw mine,’ he said.

‘You first,’ Moran countered just as John finished tapping the message out. He took a breath, hearing Moran shift his weight at the same time.    

‘Together?’ he asked, as Mycroft said, _Received and understood. Good Luck._

There was a moment of complete silence – no noise of breath, no sound of cloth shifting on skin or shoes shuffling on marble – and then they moved at the same time; John exploding upward and forward, bringing his left fist round in an arc as Moran appeared round the front of the statue, gun aiming directly at John’s head for a second until John deflected it; simply continuing the swing so he connected with Moran’s arm and used his momentum to propel him into full contact. It was almost text book in efficiency, his left shoulder crunching Moran’s gun hand against the statue’s side with enough force to slam the gun out of Moran’s grip. The pistol fell uselessly to the floor as John levelled his SIG but he wasn’t fast enough, Moran’s left hand closing on his wrist and forcing John’s shot wide. Followed almost instantly by another shot, the bullet flying straight across the hall and slammed into the statue scant millimetres from Moran’s head. _Again, Anthea_ , _quickly,_ John thought but it was too late, he could see understanding blossom in Moran’s eyes.

And then Moran was on him, forcing him backward into the shadow and slamming his gun hand against the wall, his right forearms pressing into John’s windpipe. Dimly John heard a shot but he couldn’t tell if it was his gun going off or whether Anthea was trying again. He let the gun fall, more concerned with breaking Moran’s hold and getting some air into his lungs. Only the instant the gun fell away Moran yielded slightly, releasing John’s hand. John surged forward again, intent on pushing Moran back into Anthea’s line of sight and giving himself enough room to get at the other SIG.

 _My first mistake_ , he thought as Moran grinned wolfishly, left hand suddenly full of glinting silver metal and swiping across John’s leg. _Possibly my last. I forgot he liked playing with knives_.

‘Won’t ... let you ... win,’ he gasped as pain radiated outward from this thigh and they grappled together; everything narrowing down to the points of contact between them, leverage and brute strength. _Come on, Watson_ , he yelled at himself as they fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, John only just keeping Moran’s knife away from his eye, taking a shallow cut to his cheek instead. _Pretend that it’s Marine Murray and fight properly, damn you! Like you know you can_.  

He managed to shove his knee into Moran’s hip and head butt Moran’s left temple but then Moran’s free fist slammed into John’s ribs, swiftly followed by an elbow right into the centre of the scar tissue on John’s left shoulder.  An echo of the flaming agony of the bullet that had almost stolen his life five years ago flared though John’s body and John finally understood why vicious, uncontrollable anger was often described as seeing red.

‘I’m going to send you to hell, Moran, you traitorous bastard,’ he yelled, rolling them both so he was above Moran and slamming Moran’s knife hand repeatedly against the floor. ‘We swore an oath.’

‘Feck off, Watson …’ Moran practically snarled, face red and eyes wild as he twisted, rolling them both over again and almost breaking John’s hold. ‘You know none of this is personal.’

‘That’s the fucking problem,’ John roared, ‘Because it fucking well should be.’

And then John made his play, surging up and driving his aching shoulder into Moran’s stomach hard enough to make him retch before jamming a knee into his groin for good measure. Moran released his hold on John just enough for John to get his left arm free and he twisted, desperately reaching for the spare SIG at the small of his back.

 _Please God_ , the thought fervently as his fingers closed round the grip of the gun, _just one more time. One more miracle_. _Let me keep my promise_.

Moran was already recovering, pressing forward again, knife swinging down towards John’s heart but it was too little, too late. John was already there, pressing the muzzle of the SIG to Moran’s throat and pulling the trigger before the other man had even registered there was another gun in play.

Moran didn’t make a sound as he fell against John, eyes remaining open, shock visible in them. John stared back defiantly, watching as they went dull.

‘Honi soit qui mal y pense,’ John said as the last glimmer of sentience faded from Moran’s gaze. Then he shoved Moran’s body up and to the side and rolled it off him, watching dispassionately as the head lolled to one side thanks to the bullet that had shredded muscle and sinew.

Gritting his teeth against the moan of pain he couldn’t quite stifle, he got to his knees and leant over Moran. Placing one hand over the bit of Moran’s neck that was still in tact, he tilted his other so he could see his watch.

‘Target down. Life extinct twenty twenty two.’

There was no response from Mycroft.

Lifting his hand to his ear confirmed that his ear piece had been lost in the struggle. Then, as he stared blankly down at his still heaving chest, he realised his mic had been slashed clean in two and his words had been pointless. Mycroft couldn’t hear him any more.

oOo

‘Meretricious,’ John called, voice gravelly with pain and fatigue as Anthea banged on the study door with her free hand. The other was wrapped round John’s waist, helping him to keep some of his weight off his injured leg.

There were a few thuds, some scrabbling with the bolts and then the door was flung open to reveal Sherlock, whose mouth was framing the first syllable of John’s name. He didn’t complete the word, instead his hand flew to his mouth and he sagged against the door frame, shaking his head in such a jerky and un-coordinated way John was reminded forcibly of the Punch and Judy shows he’d seen as a child. Except neither Punch nor Judy had skin the colour of watery milk and they certainly didn’t sway alarming and mutter, “No, No.” repeatedly.

‘Shit,’ John exclaimed as Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor, in that instant understanding just how awful he must look. His face was still bleeding sluggishly, as was his leg and, thanks to Moran’s blow to his shoulder and taking the recoil from his kill shot awkwardly, he was clutching his left shoulder – just where the worst of the Moran’s blood and tissue was spattered. Sherlock had taken one look at him and thought he’d been shot.

John dropped to his knees, grateful Sherlock had gone backward, not forward and so his head had landed on a rug rather than hard floor. Sherlock’s eyelids were already fluttering open and he was trying to get up, but John pushed him back down, smiling reassuringly.

‘Idiot. Since when do you start seeing but not observing?’

‘You’re alright?’ Sherlock clutched John’s hand tightly, eyes darting over his chest and face.

‘Nothing a few stitches and some antibiotics won’t cure. Moran’s dead.’

Sherlock’s eyes closed and his body went limp, sinking back into the floor. If John hadn’t seen his lips move he probably wouldn’t have caught the fervent whisper of, ‘It’s finally over.’

John didn’t even get the chance to agree, Molly’s strangled cry pushing everything that had gone before right out of his head. He was on his feet and moving over to her before his body could remember to protest, another rush of adrenaline sweeping through him. Fleetingly he thought that his body was going to pay for this later but then, that was later. Now all he had to do was deal with what was in front of him.

‘Mycroft, I need you to …’

‘Anthea has already gone to move the body and the ambulance is on its way. We have an ETA of twenty minutes. I will take care of Sherlock whilst you attend to Ms Hooper.’

‘Can I push, Greg?’ Molly, hair sodden with sweat and face contorted with pain, was almost sobbing as she writhed against the contraction. Mrs Hudson had one of her hands, Greg the other, and they were both so focused on Molly John doubted either of them had even realised he was back. ‘Greg, I need to push!’

John winced as he dropped into a crouch at Molly’s spread feet and the knife wound in his thigh – long but not dangerously deep, thank goodness - pulled open again under the hastily applied bandage of the bottom half of Anthea’s shirt.  ‘Hold on for one more for me, Molly. I just need to wash up.’

Not waiting for an answer he heaved himself to his feet and staggered into the bathroom, striping his revolting t-shirt off as he went. The hot tap was turned to full as he wiped the worst of the blood off with loo roll, then lathered his hands and forearms in soap. The medical professional in his head pointed out that, given the amount of blood and tissue he'd been covered in, he should really have a complete shower but he knew there wasn’t time. As long as his hands were clean, that would have to do.

‘John!’

‘I’m coming, Greg,’ he said, grabbing the last two clean towels and limping as fast as he could back to the other room. Once he was back between Molly's feet it was the work of seconds to confirm what he already knew; that she was fully dilated.

‘Ready, Molly?’

‘I am.’ Molly smiled up at him - a proper, full on, beaming smile that John would never have expected to see on any woman in the final stage of labour – and then her face creased up again.

‘I … oh God, I … ahhhh!’

‘That’s right, bear down, hard as you can,’ John said as he leant forward, injuries forgotten. ‘Push through.’

‘It … the pressure … I … Ooooh …’

‘Just keep going, Molls,’ Greg said, trying, as far as John could tell, to sound encouraging but merely managing frantic. ‘Keep pushing, love.’

Molly sagged back, gasping for air. ‘I’m so tired, it’s just … Oh bugger I … aaah!’

‘It’s crowning.’ John reached down, fingertips skimming over the damp, blooding curve emerging from Molly. ‘Push just a bit more, Molly, and then … the head’s out. Pant for me, Molly.’

‘But …’

‘I need to check for the cord, so you need to pant.’

Molly complied as best she could as John ran his fingers round the tiny head, feeling its neck carefully.

‘It’s ok, there’s no cord. You can push again with the next contraction.’

Molly didn’t say anything, just moaned - the sound low from the back of her throat - and redoubled her grip on Greg and Mrs Hudson’s hands. Seconds later John was easing his fingers in and round, twisting the little shoulders to a better angle as they moved down and through.

Then Molly gave a heaving cry that seemed to come from deep inside her, increasing in volume as she bore down until it perilously close to a scream. And then she stopped, collapsing back and leaving John holding the baby.

‘It’s a boy,’ John heard himself say as he looked down at the tiny being cradled in his hands. ‘Molly, Greg, you have a son.’

Quickly he popped the baby on a clean towel and brushed his little finger over its mouth. It gave a hiccup and then started wailing with a volume that belied its size. John briskly wiped off the worst of the amniotic fluid and blood as Molly gave a much softer, gasping cry and the afterbirth appeared. 'You're all done, Molly,' John said, as he lifted the umbilical cord and looked round, wondering if they had anything sharp enough to cut it nearby.

‘There you are, John,’ Mrs Hudson said, pointing toward a small pile of thread and a pair of sewing scissors. 'I thought you might be needed them.'

‘Brilliant, Mrs Hudson.’ John grinned at her, swiftly tying it off. ‘Greg?’ He held the scissors out. ‘Do you want to do the honours?’

‘Um …’ Greg looked towards the bloody mess on the floor, swallowed volubly and shook his head, making Molly laugh.

‘For someone who spends their life at crime scenes you’re ridiculously squeamish about some things,’ she murmured. Then she beamed at John and said, ‘John … let me hold my son.’

‘Two seconds.’ John cut the cord and, after checking the baby’s airways for a second time, wrapped him snugly in a clean towel, then knelt up and handed him over.

John sagged back onto his heels, the last of his adrenaline fading from his blood stream as he looked around at the other people in the room through a haze of elated exhaustion.

Anthea was leaning against the door post, grinning at him, but there was an almost wistful look in her eyes. Mycroft was standing next to her, studiously not looking in the direction of Molly at all but John could see the beginnings of a smile curving his mouth nonetheless. Mrs Hudson, an expression of extreme fondness on her features, had moved to sit on the sofa, next to Sherlock, who was still trembling and far too pale for John’s liking. When their eyes met there was an intensity in Sherlock’s gaze that almost burned.

Unable to give Sherlock what he so clearly wanted right then he turned back to Molly, whose face was glowing with happiness as she cradled her son. Greg had wrapped his arms around them both and looked, for the first time in several hours, completely at ease. John felt his own lips curve into the first genuine smile of pleasure he’d managed all day.

‘Congratulations, Molly, Greg,’ he croaked and then, as he grabbed a water bottle, added, ‘Do you have a name picked out for him?’

Molly looked up at Greg, inclining her head slightly and Greg gave an infinitesimal nod.

‘We didn’t,’ they said almost in union, making them both laugh. It was Greg who continued, ‘But we’ve decided now. He’s going to be named John, just like his Godfather.’

John suddenly found it rather difficult to swallow his mouthful of water and would have ended up spluttering inelegantly if Sherlock hadn’t chosen that moment to say

‘Ah, sentiment. Yes. For once I can understand it perfectly.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note the first:** I mention John being attached to the Royal Marines in Afghanistan because it’s a distinct possibility that his second and or third deployments (I’ve always assumed he went more than once) out there were not as a leader of a company of his own regiment’s soldiers but doing a specific job with whichever battle group was on the ground at the time. This is presuming that he was actually an infantry officer in the 2nd Battalion, the Royal Fusiliers - what the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers eventually ended up being subsumed into after hundreds of years of regimental renaming and reshuffling - because 2nd Battalion have been involved in the Afghanistan conflict pretty much from the beginning in a variety of rolls, with many of the soldiers and officers being attached to other regimental companies and units serving on the front line (thanks to the specific skill sets their training provides)*. The Marines were sent in to keep and hold Sangin and the surrounding area in 2009 and had a great many soldiers attached to them at various times when different skill sets were needed. If John is a trained sniper (which his gun skills in A Study in Pink would suggest is a possibility) then the Marines might have had need of him, just as John’s company on his first tour had need of Moran (Taliban snipers are an ongoing problem in the entirety of Helmand).
> 
> _*This understanding of the role of the 2nd Battalion in Afghanistan is based on my own research into the regiment and the Afghanistan conflict. If you want more information about the history of the Fusiliers, I’ve compiled one[here](http://johnwatsonswar.livejournal.com/2158.html)._  
> 
>  **Note the second:** “Honi sont qui mal y pense”, the French phrase John says to Moran as he dies, is the Fusiliers motto and means, if you translate it directly, “evil be to him who evil thinks”. I felt it was appropriate in the circumstances.
> 
>  **Note the third:** I have neither been pregnant, nor have I delivered a baby. I did, however, read up on “fast” births and have done my best to get the timings and descriptions to be as realistic as I could for the circumstances I’d put Molly in. Please, though, if I’ve made some glaring error, tell me and I’ll fix it!


	5. Epilogue

_**Almost six months later ...** _

Sherlock looked across the living room of 221B to where John was straightening his tie in front of the mirror. His mouth curved upwards of its own volition when John looked up, their eyes meeting in the reflection and John’s expression going soft at whatever he saw in Sherlock’s gaze.

‘Alright?’

Sherlock gave a small nod and then, when he realised that he genuinely was, gave another, more vigorous one.

‘Yes, I am.’

It hadn’t been easy, coming back to life.

Oh, the practicalities hadn’t been a problem. Mycroft had sorted out the paperwork with his customary efficiency and the press, after the initial furore had died down, had left him well enough alone. Plus the work had come flooding in, both private enquiries and cases from the MET, who had – probably thanks to Lestrade, whose star had never been so high - fallen over themselves to officially attach him to them, on terms that not even he could sniff at. Not that he’d taken any cases at first.

No, it was he who had been the problem. He’d got so used to looking over his shoulder, sleeping in a different bed practically every night, moving in the shadows and hiding everything from everyone that coming back to Baker Street, to John, had been like a waking dream. He’d expected to be able to pick up where he left off, slip back into his old life as easily as he’d expected to slip into his coat. But his coat had not fitted and it swiftly became all too apparent that his old life didn’t either.

The coat was easy enough to sort out – a few nips and tucks to the stitching and proper food on a regular basis was enough to return his body to more like it’s normal size - but if it hadn’t been for John, he might have given up trying to make the relevant alterations to his head.

John hadn’t done any of the things Sherlock had expected him to once they’d finally got back to Baker Street. He’d not punched him, yelled at him or lost his temper in any way at all. But neither had he kissed him. In fact the most intimate thing John had done to him was give him a hug that had lasted for over ten minutes, followed by a full medical exam when they first got home. After that it was nothing more than brief brushes of hands and fleeting caresses of his head or cheek and sitting side by side on the sofa. John hadn’t questioned him when night after night he catnapped in the living room - only successfully avoiding the nightmares one night in three - neither had John pushed him into answering his phone or attempting to leave the flat. 

What John did instead was talk. Not about the last three years but other things he’d never shared before; why he’d walked away from a career as a GP and enlisted as an infantry officer, how he’d felt the first time one of his platoon were injured, what he’d thought and felt the first time he deliberately took a life. John told him about his deployments in Iraq and then Afghanistan, about patrols and operations, about the scent of blood on heated dirt.

It had taken Sherlock two and a half months of sleepless nights, jumping at shadows and vacillating between being grateful that John hadn’t attempted to restart the physical side of their relationship (because he wasn’t sure he could be with John in that way and not break down) and hurt that John didn’t want him in that way anymore to realise just what John was _actually_ doing. John was showing him what he needed to do, rather than telling him to do it and giving him the space to realise it and come to terms with the necessity. He spent a week berating himself for being six kinds of idiot and then another trying find the courage to start.

It had been past midnight when the need to tell John everything had overcome his inherent abhorrence of talking about something that was certain to visibly affect him. This was John. He didn’t have to hide himself from John. He had never had to hide himself from John. He’d bounded up the stairs and burst into John’s room without thinking about whether John would be awake or not.

Thankfully he was, sitting up, one of those appalling thrillers he liked so much resting on his upraised knees. He’d taken one look at Sherlock, put the book on the bedside table and flipped back the duvet.

‘Come here, love,’ he’d said, opening his arms. ‘Come in here and talk to me.’

Sherlock had gone, burrowing into John’s arms in a manner that would have embarrassed him had anyone else been witness, resting his head in the crook of John’s neck. John had kissed the crown of Sherlock’s head, settled his arms firmly round Sherlock’s waist and murmured, ‘I love you’, into Sherlock’s hair.

That was enough to crack open the floodgates although the words fell from his mouth in trickles rather than tsunamis. It took him nearly a week of crawling into John’s bed at night to get the whole sorry tale told. It took another week for John to share his side of the story.

John moved back into Sherlock’s room two days after he’d finished but Sherlock could still feel the one thing John hadn’t said wedged between the two of them, keeping them from being together in every way.  It had taken two weeks of needling and behaving like a complete prick to push John to breaking point, until his demand to “Just hit me, John, hit me. Make me hurt the way I made you hurt” was met.

The resulting fight was loud, messy and the most cathartic thing Sherlock had ever experienced. It took weeks for his nose to heal but it was more than worth it; John looked years younger without the anger at being left behind and lied to furrowing his forehead and radiating through his body. The fact that John had then, _finally_ , kissed him - so hard he’d almost added to the bruises - hadn’t hurt either. But that was the only development in the physical side of their relationship. The following weeks of kissing and nothing more were almost as cathartic as the fight; they re-learnt the closeness they’d once taken for granted, one brush of lips at a time.

Sherlock had taken his first private case as soon as the bruises had faded enough he wouldn’t frighten anyone, John at his side. The banter came back as did the thrill of the hunt. If they were both a little more cautious and a little more circumspect about rushing headlong into danger neither mentioned it. But it wasn’t until two nights previously - at the end of their first case with Lestrade, which had finished with a chase through the back alleys of Soho and ended with them, sweaty and giggling, in the hall of 221B - that their relationship had, finally, been properly consummated again.

And then again. And again. And again.

To the extent that Sherlock had wondered briefly, early this morning before John had claimed his full attention with judicious use of his tongue, whether they were trying to cram three years worth of sex into three days.

‘ _Sher_ lock!’

He blinked, jolted out of his now blissful reverie to find John facing him, an indulgent look on his face.

‘John?’

‘I _said_ , come over here and let me do yours.’ 

Sure enough, a silk tie the colour of a ripe plum was dangling from John’s fingers.

‘I told you, I don’t wear ties.’

‘Wrong.’ John raised one eyebrow and squared his jaw. Sherlock found himself covering the space between them involuntarily. ‘Today you are wearing this tie.’

‘I don’t see why …’

‘You don’t have to.’ John was already flipping up Sherlock’s collar and inserting the repugnant item. ‘You just have to accept that I will not let you turn up improperly dressed … You missed their wedding, the least you can do is make an effort for the christening.’

‘Yes, John,’ Sherlock said meekly. John’s mouth twitched as he finished the knot and rocked up on his toes, briefly pressing their mouths together. Then, before Sherlock could follow the kiss up with something a little less chaste, John produced the tie pin Sherlock had been given for rescuing the kidnapped banker. The tie pin from the case that had started the press calling him a hero, one of the cases that he now knew Moriarty had orchestrated to raise his profile. It was a strand to the web that had led to three years of hell.

‘Is that really appropriate?’ Sherlock waved his hands at the offending article in an effort to ward off the unwelcome tightness in his chest.

‘Yes,’ John briefly cupped Sherlock’s face with his free hand. ‘I know there are still some demons that need exorcising and I can’t think of a better place to do so than at a christening. Plenty of holy water for one thing.’

A bark of laughter escaped Sherlock’s lips, his chest easing as John grinned up at him and affixed the pin.

‘You never cease to surprise me, John Watson.’

‘And I’m going to keep surprising you for a long time,’ John said, squeezing Sherlock’s hand before motioning to the door. ‘Now shoo! The car will be here any minute.’

When they arrived at the little church in Turnham Green Sherlock admitted, in the privacy of his own head, that he would have looked out of place without the tie. They may only have been a small group but Lestrade, Mycroft and Mike Stamford, as well as Molly’s father, were all just as smartly dressed as John and him.

‘Motherhood suits you, Molly,’ he said when she came to greet him, clad in a yellow tea frock and white fluffy cardigan that set off her complexion perfectly. ‘You’re positively glowing.’

‘Thank you,’ she said simply, hugging him as tightly as she was able to with little John perched on her hip. ‘You look well,’ she remarked as she drew back, eyes gleaming in the bright December sun that was filtering through the windows as they glanced over his body.

‘He is. We both are,’ John said, slipping between the two of them. ‘Now how’s my gorgeous soon-to-be Godson?’

Molly relinquished little John to him with a happy smile and then the priest was bustling up, organising everyone, and there was no more time for chatter. Sherlock was glad that the service was short, having little patience for religion of any form, but he couldn’t help but be glad they were there; especially since it allowed him to watch John grinning like Christmas had come early, Mrs Hudson beaming at everyone whilst surreptitiously wiping her eyes every few seconds and – which was an entirely unexpected bonus – Anthea giving Mycroft an extremely pointed look as she held the baby. He would not have missed his brother blushing almost crimson in response for all the tea in China.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ Greg asked two hours later, once all the photos were done and they’d adjourned to the function room of the local pub. Sherlock was leaning against the wall, John leaning against him, arms firmly wrapped round each other.

‘I’m not having an entirely unpleasant time,’ Sherlock responded, earning a swat on the rump from John that was not, in any way, a deterrent to speaking his mind.

‘We’re having a lovely time,’ John added before Sherlock could open his mouth again. ‘Every one is. And it’s nice to give our suits an airing somewhere other than a magistrate’s court. We ought to have proper gatherings more often.’

‘Yeah, we should. Although …’ Greg mused, looking between the two of them, ‘… if I were a betting man I’d put money on the next event we all get dressed up for being your wedding.’

Sherlock turned his face to John, not bothering to school his features or hide the question in his eyes.

John looked back steadily for a few moments, then gave a nod, his eyes going soft as he did so.   

Sherlock brushed a hand over John’s cheek and murmured “thank you”, before dipping his head to give John a proper kiss. When he pulled away and turned back to Greg he was greeted by the comical sight of the other man doing an impressive impression of a guppy.

‘Did you just ask him …? Was that …? Are you now … engaged?’

‘Indeed,’ Sherlock said, voice humming with satisfaction. ‘For once, Lestrade, I cannot say your conclusion is wrong.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it ... it may have taken over a year from initial prompt to story completion (and let's not talk about the eight months between posting the first chapter and getting the rest written and shared) but it's finally all posted and I hope you all enjoyed it.
> 
> In answer to several people's question, I'm not planning a sequel but I've learnt never to say never and this epilogue _is_ set at the start of December ... well, there may be some Christmas ficcery in this 'verse but I make no promises!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Thank God There's a Doctor in the House" by Kizzia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515707) by [Lovesfic (me23)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic)




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